


Silver and Grey

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aging, Happy Ending, M/M, Men of Letters Headquarters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been ten years since the angels fell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver and Grey

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Jess/deanhugchester for the beta!

It's been ten years since the angels fell.

Ten years since Cas took a grace that wasn't his and used it up, nearly every last drop, bringing Kevin to life and banishing Gadreel from Sam's body.

Ten years since he'd dropped to the floor and wrapped Dean in his arms and whispered, "It's going to be all right."

Sometimes Dean wonders if he's trapped in a djinn world, or a dream, or maybe in some sort of Heaven. How is it possible that they're alive, together, and pushing fifty?

The bunker is louder than it was then. It's alive with their gaggle of strays and runaways underfoot, Charlie and Dorothy in and out through the portal. Sam's family comes for dinner at least twice a week, Jody and Kevin and Linda stopping by whenever they're nearby. And young hunters come through nearly every day for advice and training and sometimes for just someone to hug them tight and tell them they did the right thing.

And there's him and Cas.

They share a room now, unofficially since that night when Cas had regained and lost his grace in the span of three hours and officially since about three weeks later when Dean had unceremoniously dumped out the top two drawers of his bureau and told Cas it'd be easier if all their stuff was together. He'd been gruff and he'd thought he was being casual, but by then Cas was well versed in Dean's bullshit. Cas had smiled a quiet, small smile and said "Thank you, Dean," and tucked his meagre belongings in with such reverence that Dean couldn't catch his breath.

He can't believe he's allowed this, even after all this time. Surely someone somewhere must have missed a memo, because Dean Winchester? He's not supposed to be happy. Not like this.

So he lies still, listening to the rare silence of the bunker around him, and stares at the man beside him.

Cas is fast asleep, blanket around his shoulders, with one leg sticking out to the knee. His hair is longer than it usually is, strands brushing the tops of Cas's eyebrows and fanning across the pillow from the crown of his head. With each breath he lets out a little whistle, and his hand stretches across the mattress towards Dean.

They're curved together, on their sides, after a long, fruitful day. The hunt had been straightforward; a ghost with a vendetta, an old, decrepit house, and a grateful family who'd showered them with thanks and baked goods. They'd taken two of the kids along, letting them take point, and both had done everything by the book. 

Sometimes when Dean watches this next generation of hunters, he's caught between wondering when he got old and trying to remember if he'd ever been that young. 

He moves more slowly now but he likes to think it's balanced out by knowledge and wisdom. Cas is aging too, feeling the weather in his knees and needing four pillows to sleep, but there's something fascinating about the process. When you never considered the idea that you'd live to _age_ , every grey hair, every new pain, every visible sign is a miracle. 

There are crows' feet forming in the corners of Cas's eyes.

They've always been there, Dean's pretty sure, a gift from Jimmy Novak's life. But they're not Jimmy's, not any more. 

They're deeper, spidering out from the crease of Cas's lids, and even in sleep Dean can trace them across his angel's face, a record of joys and sorrows, successes and failures, love and loss and _life._

They've become a kind of hunting school lately, with young people full of grief and rage and purpose knocking at their door and looking for a way to make a difference in the world. They take them in, give them a meal and a training program and watch the light come back into their eyes. Dean makes jokes about being Professor X, but these days only Cas gets that reference. It's a testament to the life they've led together and to how much things have changed.

Dean's not sure if it's the right thing to do: some of them are young, too young to know so much. Some go out and do good, find a balance, find lives of watercoolers and toner 9-5 and salt and iron in the dark. And some don't.

Some are like Gordon: too damaged, too angry at the world. Others make his throat close up with the memory of Benny, and need to fight their own demons before they can fight anyone else's. And some just aren't fast enough, smart enough, lucky enough to make it.

But he does what he can, and Cas tells him every night that what they do makes a difference, that they're making the world safer and giving their charges knowledge and weaponry and a chance to survive.

Cas's eyes blink open, hazy in the darkness, and focus in on Dean's. There's a softness to his gaze, one Dean knows is just for him, and he lets his fingers linger where they are, gently running over Cas's temple and cheek and slipping back into thick, dark hair barely touched with grey.

"Hey," he whispers, smiling.

Cas reaches out for him and pulls him close, sleep-warm and soft-limbed, and Dean inhales deeply, filling his nose with the scent of Cas and home.

It's not what he imagined his life would be. It's pretty far from that.

But on night like this, when he's wrapped tight in Cas's arms in his own bed, with a purpose and a future?

There's nowhere he'd rather be.

 


End file.
